The Inn(17)

“A body bag,” she said. “And the dealers don’t mind. In places where it’s really bad, like Baltimore, a few overdose deaths around a particular block just tells the addicts where the good stuff is. The stuff that hasn’t been cut up with baby formula or laundry detergent.”

“Is this what you did in the Bureau?” I asked. “Drug trafficking?”

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you,” she said. Her smile was broad; she was someone who wasn’t afraid to enjoy her own humor. Siobhan had been like that. Susan’s wet fingers touched mine as we both reached for the same potato, and the collar of my shirt was suddenly hot and tight. “My job wasn’t so glamorous. I didn’t do anything that would get my picture in the paper.”

“All the more intriguing,” I said. “International woman of mystery shying from the camera behind aviator sunglasses. Anti-terrorist secret agent.”

“Hardly.” She rolled her eyes.

“Whatever you were involved in, it must have been hardcore stuff,” I said. “Effie’s no pencil pusher, and from what I can tell, she’s your responsibility. Is she Bureau too or is she just someone you encountered in your job? Maybe she’s a spy. Maybe her name’s not Effie at all. Maybe those are her initials, F. E.”

“Cut it out.” She looked mildly alarmed for an instant. “We’re not talking about me. We’re talking about you and these deadbeat dealers. I want to help you, Bill. I believe in what you’re doing. These people don’t belong in Gloucester.”

I finished peeling the last potato and looked out the window. Marni was wandering on the beach beyond the trees, her cigarette trailing smoke from her fingers into the wind, her eyes on the pale yellow sky wedged between the clouds and the sea.

“They don’t belong anywhere,” I told her.





CHAPTER EIGHTEEN





SLEEP WAS ALMOST impossible. When I dozed for a few minutes, I dreamed about little girls eating elephant tranquilizers and immediately snapped awake.

I left my basement bedroom and went up to the kitchen, where I found Sheriff Spears in front of the refrigerator, his belly illuminated by the interior light. He turned and smiled at me, a jar of pickles, a package of ham, a loaf of bread, and a bottle of mayonnaise hugged to his chest. I try not to look into the fridge too often. There’s a bottle of champagne in there that Siobhan and I had been saving for our anniversary, now a permanent fixture on the bottom shelf.

“Heading out on the night shift?” I asked the big man.

“No, I just got back. Full day of it. Jeez, I’m starved.”

I noticed a blue bruise on his fleshy brow as he dumped the ingredients on the counter and started putting together an enormous sandwich.

“Looks like you brought the fight to crime-fighting today,” I said.

“You wouldn’t believe it.” He slathered a half-inch layer of mayonnaise on the bread. “We’ve got a bag snatcher in town. I was out all day in an unmarked unit trying to spot the guy. Finally I see him make off with an old lady’s handbag outside the barbershop on Burnham Street. I called it in and pursued, lost the guy in the Oak Grove Cemetery.”

I sat at the table and listened as Clay pressed the tall sandwich flat with his huge hand, Godzilla squashing a tower of apartments. He took a couple of glasses down from the cupboard, poured a bourbon in one and a shot of pickle juice from the jar in the other.

“So after a while, I find the guy again near Riverside Avenue. But I’m so excited I’ve finally got him, I accidentally jump the curb with the unit. I go through a fence and a flower bed and knock over a big statue that’s standing in this woman’s front yard. I get out to chase the snatcher but I’m not in uniform, so the lady thinks I’m just some asshole who crashed on her lawn and is trying to run away. She comes out and smacks me in the face with a dictionary.”

“A dictionary?” I pursed my lips so I wouldn’t laugh.

“She must have been doing the crossword or something.” Clay sighed. “Anyway, another unit caught the guy down on the docks an hour later. The troops let me return the bag to the old lady, you know, which was nice. But when I hand it to her, she says it isn’t her bag. The guy must have snatched another bag after I lost him. Get this—the old lady calls me an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot, Clay,” I said. “You’re a fine and dedicated officer of the law.”

“Well, I try my best.” He sighed again, took a bite of his sandwich. “This afternoon was crazy. I’ve got a missing person. I mean a real-deal, genuine missing person. I don’t think I’ve had one in … well, years.”

“Who is it?”

“Guy named D’Aundre Newgate. Moved here from Boston about four months ago. Had a fight with his girlfriend this morning—she dumped their little girl on him and ran off in a huff. She comes back a few hours later, and the child’s at home but Newgate is nowhere to be seen.”

“Huh,” I said.

“I don’t even know where to start with something like that.” Clay looked stressed. He watched me for a moment, thinking. “Look, Bill. I don’t know how to say this, but if you … I mean, you’re someone who gets around town a bit …”